The Bartender
by Omelettes
Summary: A young man working at a local bar decides to serve House more than just a drink. Slashy smut ensues. Lots more filth to come! The farthest thing imaginable from romance I assure you. Stay tuned for more unrefined ribaldry!
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Bartender

**Author:** Omelettes

**Rating:** M; sexual content and drug/alcohol consumption

**Summary:** A typical occurrence for nearly every man, albeit with a slight deviation.

**Notes:** This is both my very first House fanfiction, _and_ the first piece of fanfiction that I've written in a number of years. I'd like to believe that my style and technique have improved since I last scribbled out a fanfic about my favourite Nickelodeon cartoon at the age of twelve; however, I suppose you fine folks will be the judges of that. I did everything I could to keep House in character; I hope I've succeeded in doing so. Perhaps getting him drunk was cheating a little bit, but drunken House – to me – is just _endlessly_ cool. I hope you'll read, and I hope you'll review. I implore you to go easy on me; but, of course, you don't have to. Enjoy!

It had been a long day.

Not, of course, that every day wasn't a long day for Dr. Gregory House; however, this one had been especially irritating. There had been no new cases for his department to work on, so he'd been stuck in the clinic for the better part of the day under Cuddy's orders. Five genital swabs and six Viagra prescriptions into his morning, he'd become fed up and had decided to try his luck at hiding in the cafeteria. He was but two bites into another free steak when Dr. Cuddy, looking more Hitler-esque than ever, had found him and ruined his 'break'. He was sent back to the clinic – without his steak – and he ended up spending his afternoon much as he had spent his morning: Swabbing crotches and prodding the floppy dicks of 60-year-old men.

By the time he got to leave – it was about half past five in the evening, and the sun was just beginning to set – he, quite understandably, was in desperate need of a few drinks. Not quite yet in the mood to return home, House drove his bike to a small, poorly-lit little tavern that he tended to frequent; it was just a few blocks from the hospital. It was a Tuesday evening, and although he was certain that there would be enough people at the bar in whose shuffle a man could get lost, he knew that there wouldn't be so many of them that he would be distracted from getting his drink on. After parking on the road and shoving a few coins into the metre, House hopped off his bike and entered.

His predictions were correct: The bar was full, but far from crowded. There was a hockey game playing on the overhead television screens that a few of the men in the bar were watching, and at nearly all of the tables sat small groups of college students; some relaxing and talking, others attempting to help one another do some last-minute cramming. There was a waitress serving pub snacks to the various tables of college kids, and there was a bartender serving drinks and chatting with some of the patrons sitting at the bar.

House eyed an empty stool at the end of the bar; back near the kitchen, it wasn't crowded at all. Manoeuvring around the other customers – his cane made it easy; everyone moved out of his way without him having to say a word – he made for the back corner. As he sat down, it registered in his mind that this position wouldn't allow him to view the TV. That was alright, though – he hadn't come to watch hockey.

It had been cold outside, and House was still wearing his scarf and jacket. He leaned his cane against the bar, removed his scarf, and placed it beside him. He slid out of his jacket and let it hang over the back of the stool. He removed his bottle of Vicodin from his pocket, and twirled it around with his fingers. He listened to the pills rattle inside.

Suddenly, he slammed the tiny bottle down on the bar's finished, wooden surface. The sound did what it was supposed to do; the bartender – who scarcely looked old enough to be serving alcohol – came walking toward him from the other end of the bar, where he'd been mixing rum and Cokes for a group of off-the-clock businessmen. He flashed House a handsome smile, and asked, "What'll it be?"

"I want a shot of whiskey, along with a bottle of your most expensive, most _pretentious_, imported lager."

House wasn't smiling, but the bartender smirked. His lips parted slightly, showing off a row of perfectly straight, albeit slightly yellowed teeth. His blonde hair, not especially long, but straight and messy and only about two weeks' worth of growth away from falling into his eyes, swayed gently and fell over his forehead as he nodded. "Sure thing."

He poured the shot first; setting it down in front of House as he retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerated shelves below the counter. As he opened the bottle and set it down in front of his customer, he smiled. "Did you just get off work?"

House, who had already begun to open his bottle of pills, looked up, taken slightly off-guard. "Yeah." He looked back down again, and continued to attempt to twist the child-proof cap off of his Vicodin.

"You from the university? What do you do?" By now, the bartender was absent-mindedly wiping down the counter space between he and his patron. When he came across a toothpick, or a penny, or a parasol, or some other piece of bar-debris, he'd pick it up and toss it nonchalantly into the front pocket of his white apron, which was obviously too big for him – although he was tall, he had a small frame, and tied properly around his back, the side pockets of the apron reached around his body and actually became part of the knot used to fasten the garment in place.

House, by this time, had retrieved one small, white pill from the orange bottle in his hands, and was popping it into his mouth. He picked the shot of whiskey up from off the surface of the bar, and tipped it back; swallowing roughly as the pill went down and the liquor followed, leaving a pleasant warming sensation in his throat. He smiled for a moment, and his eyes widened as the shot went down, but as soon as he looked back toward the bartender, a familiar expression of half-annoyed indifference spread across his features. His brow furrowed ever-so-slightly, and he said, "You've never asked me anything _before_."

The bartender chuckled in response. "I've never served you before. I just started here a few days ago."

House nodded. "Oh." He spun his pill bottle around on the smooth surface of the bar with his fingers, and took a swig of his beer. As far as he was concerned, he'd just ended the conversation. He fully expected the bartender to leave him alone, so he could drown the memories of his clinic patients' seeping gonorrhoea and flaccid penises in peace.

But the bartender stayed where he was. "So – where do you work?" He was finished wiping the bar by now, and was obviously just looking to make conversation.

House's mouth twisted into a miniature scowl, and his eyes gazed expectantly at the bartender – shouldn't he have shut up and left by now? "I'm a doctor at Princeton Plainsboro. Why do you care?"

The bartender's smile faded a bit. His young face held a look of vague disappointment. "Well, you're the only guy in this bar sitting alone. I figured you'd appreciate some conversation." The truth was, he thought House was pretty good-looking – he'd always had a thing for scruffy old men, and this guy was the scruffiest, oldest man he'd served all night.

"I'm not big on conversation." House took another long drink out of his bottle of expensive, pretentious beer. He was such a terrible customer; he wasn't used to anyone in the service industry trying so hard to get him to talk. It was strange, and it was annoying.

The bartender smirked, and raised his eyebrows. "What _are_ you big on?"

"Liquor," House said with absolute certainty. "Get me another shot."

"Sure thing, Doctor." The bartender retrieved the whiskey bottle from behind him once again. As he poured it, he said, "At least tell me your name."

House put back the shot as soon as it was placed in front of him. He allowed a satisfied half-grunt to escape from the back of his throat, and he looked at the bartender. "Greg House." He gave a crooked smile. "And I want another shot."

Hours later, the bar was almost completely empty, save for the young bartender, who was washing the last of the evening's mugs and wiping up the last of the messes on the counter's surface, and House, who was still sitting in place at the end of the bar; now wasted out of his mind. He didn't usually get this drunk away from home – in fact, he generally made it somewhat of a point not to – but this evening, he'd been compelled by something to stick around; drinking himself almost to the point of non-function.

While he was cleaning up, the bartender – already having put on his own coat and gloves – had told House several times that the establishment was closing. House hadn't really listened, however; had just sat there and nodded at nearly everything the bartender said, tossing out the occasional, half-coherent witty remark. There was no bouncer around to throw him out, but even if there had been, the bartender didn't figure he would have felt that good about having him throw Greg House out on his ass. The man was crippled, for one thing; for another, the bartender thought he was pretty cool – which is why he offered to call him a cab.

"No, I've got my bike outside. I can drive home." After popping another Vicodin – his leg ached from having sat in the same position on the bar stool for so long – House stood, and retrieved his cane from where it was leaning against the bar. Steadying himself on the counter, he began to hobble toward the door. After catching his balance a couple of times, he could walk as well as he ever could – but not well enough to convince the bartender that he was alright for driving.

"Besides," House half-slurred, "I don't have any cash left for a cab, 'less the guy takes _debit_. I spent all my cash here." He continued toward the door; gripping a stool or the side of the bar every couple of steps for support. The bartender didn't like what he saw at all – it would be a shame, he thought, if such a handsome face were to be splattered against filthy asphalt and scraped off the ground by a fire-fighter with an industrial-sized spatula. First, he thought he'd offer to pay for Greg's cab himself – then, he got an even better idea. He smiled.

"Okay. How about I drive you home? No cash required for that, and you won't have to leave your bike out here all night. Just tell me where you live, and I'll take you there." The bartender walked around so he was facing House; he put a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to stop him from going any farther.

"No thanks," House said. "Now get your hands off me. You're scrawny; I could knock you down in a secon'."

The bartender was at somewhat of a loss. He held his position. "Come on. You're smart enough to be a doctor; you're smart enough to know you shouldn't be driving. Just let me take you home. I'll even pay you for the gas I use." He honestly didn't think it would have much of an effect on Greg, but he said it anyway: "Please?"

It was easy to tell that House was getting tired. His leg hurt, he was completely shit-faced, and all he wanted to do at this point was return home and relax with a bottle of Vicodin. He considered the bartender's words, and finally decided to give in. He didn't often give in to people, and it gave him a strange feeling to hand over his keys to the bartender and say 'fine'.

So, the two walked out together; House limping behind the bartender, who, when the pair reached the bike, tossed House the helmet. He figured Greg was more likely to go flying off the bike than he was; and besides, if Greg got hurt because he was drunk, it would be the bartender's fault for letting him get so plastered in the first place. Not, of course, that the bartender had pegged House as being the type who would be deterred from drinking altogether by a simple denial of service. No, he was glad he'd kept serving Greg; after all, if he hadn't, he wouldn't have Greg's arms wrapped around his waist right now, and he wouldn't be driving him home at all. On a number of levels, the bartender was happy with the situation: It wasn't every day that one had an attractive man completely dependant on him, and he hadn't successfully picked up a patron since he quit his former bartending job in Toronto and moved to Jersey for college. Perhaps, he reasoned, this would be a lucky night for him.

As the bike sauntered down the street at not much more than forty miles per hour, House barked directions into the bartender's ear. The bartender hoped that Greg wasn't so drunk that he didn't know where he was telling him to go. The last thing he wanted was to end up lost with an expensive motorcycle and a drunken, disabled man twenty-five years his senior.

House wasn't getting them lost, however, and after about fifteen minutes, the pair pulled up in front of a building; recognisable to House as his own apartment. "Right here," he said as he hopped unsteadily off his bike and grabbed his cane.

The bartender hopped off as well, and instead of passing House his keys, said, "Here. I'll walk you inside." House didn't protest, and the two entered the lobby together; House leading the way to apartment B. As soon as the bartender unlocked the door for him, House – with a surprising level of dexterity for his level of inebriation – snatched his keys out of the bartender's grasp.

"Thanks for the ride; you can go home now," he said as he peeled his jacket and scarf off; tossing them over the arm of the sofa.

The bartender had been afraid this would happen. "Actually... would you mind if I were to sleep here tonight? It's freezing outside, and I left my car at the bar. I'll walk over to get it in the morning; but right now, it's really just too cold." He took a step inside the apartment, closed the door behind him, and looked at House with a somewhat-pleading expression. He wasn't lying entirely; it actually _was_ cold outside, and although his main motivation for driving House home had been his desire to travel to the apartment of an attractive man, he really didn't feel like walking back to retrieve his car in this type of weather. He stood, waiting for a response.

The ride home seemed to have steadied House a bit; although his words were still obviously those of a man who'd had too much to drink, his slurring was down to a minimum, and his steps were more deliberate, and less shaky. He looked the bartender over. The young man really didn't seem as though he would be the type to fare well on a dark, cold street in the middle of the night, and he didn't want to be responsible for the guy's freezing to death or getting beaten up by kids in baggy pants. He gave a frustrated sigh, and rolled his eyes.

"Fine. You can have the couch. Just don't piss on it, or anything."

The bartender smiled at House's remark, and as he slipped out of his boots and hung his coat on the hook nearest the door, he took a few steps toward Greg. When he was less than a foot away, he looked up at the older man's blue eyes, and said, "Actually... I was kind of hoping we could share the bed, if that's alright with you."

House's inebriation showed in the laugh he gave the young bartender as he swayed ever-so-slightly in front of him. With a crooked grin, he said, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were hitting on me."

The bartender looked up at Greg with a hopeful smile. "What makes you think you know better?" He reached up and put a firm, but affectionate hand on House's shoulder.

House laughed obnoxiously again. He shifted his weight on his cane; leaning slightly to the right. "I've never fucked a man in my life, and I don't think I'm going to be starting tonight." He opened his mouth again to make a crack about Wilson, but realised just in time that the young man didn't know who Wilson _was_. That was strange; he wasn't used to speaking to anyone completely removed from his professional world. He nodded in the direction of the couch. "Now go lie down. I want you out by nine tomorrow morning." He turned around and headed for his bedroom; letting out another series of drunken giggles.

His legs long and able, the bartender was able to stride across the room until he was fixed in front of House; blocking his entrance to the hallway. "Come on. You can't tell me you've never been curious. You're too smart to be straight; I know you are. Just give it a try; see if you like it." He smiled. "I'm really good, and I come completely free of charge." He moved in closer to House; even closer than he had been when he'd stopped him in the living room.

House didn't say anything. He just stared at the young man; his face portraying irritation, confusion, and – if one looked hard enough – perhaps just a twinge of curiosity. He moved his jaw from side to side as if in thought, and for a moment, he bit upon his lower lip. "Mmm..." He looked up toward the ceiling, and then back down at the bartender. "... No." He jerked his head back toward the living room. "Go sleep on the couch."

In disparity, the bartender reached up, grabbed House's face, and pulled him into a kiss. For a second, House struggled somewhat weakly – he was still heavily intoxicated – against the younger man's grip. He tried to speak; to curse at the bartender, but found that with his lips occupied, he couldn't make much noise. After a moment, he settled into the kiss, and the bartender came to the realisation that it was safe to insert some tongue into the equation. He did, and his mouth was greeted by the taste of whiskey as Greg's tongue gingerly and cautiously began to explore his mouth. The bartender closed his eyes, and felt House's stubble rub up against his face and hand as he stroked the older man's cheek with his thumb.

After nearly a full minute, House broke the kiss and looked down at the bartender, whose hand was still gingerly stroking the side of his face. He could feel his pants tighten around the crotch ever-so-slightly, and he looked up toward the ceiling once again as he swallowed hard. He'd gone out that evening looking to distract himself, and what in the world was more distracting than drunken, gay sex with a strange man half one's own age? Although, that may just have been the alcohol talking. He looked down at the bartender once again. "Bedroom's at the end of the hall and to your left. Go on."

The bartender slid his hand down to House's neck, and gave it a gentle squeeze before turning to make his way down to the bedroom. He could hear House's cane thumping on the wood behind him. He turned toward the door as he began to unbutton his shirt. When Greg entered the room, he walked over to him; the better part of his upper torso exposed. He drew the older man into another kiss, and this time, House didn't struggle. The bartender put his arms around Greg's waist and snaked a hand up the back of his shirt. He felt around the skin; gently at first, but soon began to scratch and grasp. A breath of air caught in House's throat at the sensation, and he let it out in the form of a gentle grunt into the bartender's mouth. This prompted the younger man to deepen the kiss; pushing his tongue as far back into Greg's mouth as he could, and to press his own body up against his. He rubbed his crotch against House's thigh, and he could feel the older man's own steadily-growing hardness push into his abdomen.

At this point, House's hands weren't doing very much. He really wasn't quite certain as to what they should be doing; his sexual experience up until this point had been entirely composed of sex with women. He wasn't sure of the manner in which he should be touching the bartender. Besides that, he was drunk, and drunkenness tended to deplete one's ability to multi-task successfully. He was so busy with the kissing and the groaning and the grinding that touching didn't really register in his brain.

Luckily, the bartender had the good sense to reach for Greg's hands and place them on the front of his shirt. House picked up on the cue, dropped his cane on the bed, and began to undo the rest of the younger man's shirt; fumbling with the buttons a bit, but otherwise making quick work of the garment. Once he was finished, he allowed it to slide off onto the floor. He stroked the bartender's chest with his hands; running his fingers over the nipples, and tracing the gentle curves of the ribs as he went down. The bartender was very thin, and House couldn't help but note that his organs were easy to detect by drunken groping alone. He thought that was fascinating.

After a few more moments, the bartender broke the kiss and tugged at the hem of House's shirt; prompting him to peel it off over his head and drop it on the floor to accompany the bartender's own. It was at this point that House moved to sit down on the bed; his leg was beginning to get achy from standing for so long. The bartender sat down beside him, put one hand on the crotch of Greg's jeans, and began to lick and kiss his way down his jaw-line.

House took in a series of sharp breaths as the bartender nipped his way down to the base of his neck. When he got there, he could feel the bartender's tongue go over the place where he'd been shot. For a moment, he thought that the bartender might ask what caused the scar; however, he didn't – he simply continued his trail of kisses down to House's collarbone, squeezing him gently through his jeans all the while.

While the bartender worked over House's upper body, House continued to run his hands over the bartender's upper torso. His skin was completely smooth; if the young man's chest wasn't naturally hairless, then it had almost certainly been waxed. House ran his fingers over the bartender's nipples; they went erect, and the bartender moaned into the skin on House's chest. He stopped what he was doing for a moment and looked up; the expression on his face portraying ecstasy, with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Quickly, he got off the bed so that he was kneeling between Greg's knees. By this time, his cock was pressing hard against his zipper, and the sensation was nearly painful. To an extent, however, he enjoyed it; it was a familiar feeling, and the sorts of things he associated it with only served to further arouse him. Without touching himself at all, he one-handedly fumbled to unbutton Greg's jeans and pull the zipper all the way down. With his other hand, he sensually stroked the older man's chest and stomach; tweaking his nipples and gently scratching his skin. Once Greg's jeans were undone, he pulled his boxers down over his cock and let it go free. It was hard, and as he stroked the bare skin with his hand, he heard yet another of the breaths that had been caught in Greg's throat release itself; this time into the air. He started off by licking lazy circles around the head of the organ, and finally took the full length of it into his mouth and throat.

House couldn't help but become somewhat more vocal at this point; he groaned aloud as he felt himself being enveloped by the young bartender's warm, wet mouth. As the young man's gag reflex tickled his head and his tongue ran its way up and down the length of the shaft, House's fingers contracted and his hands gripped the bedsheets. His head was tilted back on his neck, and his blue eyes – glassy and somewhat absent; albeit still in acknowledgement of the sensation between his legs – stared up at the ceiling.

The bartender could feel singular drops of ejaculate welling up on the head of Greg's cock; he didn't want to end things this way, however, so he gave the member one last full-length run-over with his tongue as he got up off his knees and stood up in front of Greg.

While he leaned down and gave the older man the most passionate kiss he could muster, he began to undo his own jeans; sliding them, along with his boxers, over his slim hips; letting them gather around his feet as they fell to the floor. He stepped out of them and pushed them back with his foot as he took House's shoulders and pushed the older man down onto his back. As he broke their kiss, he leaned over House, smiled deviously, and said, "Now we're getting to the best part." House, however, did not respond – half-drunk on whiskey, and half-drunk on pleasure, he wasn't even coherent enough to demand a condom. (Perhaps he would regret that later, and perhaps he wouldn't; however, right now, that wasn't his main concern – he was concious enough to have sex, but not to do too much more than that.)

Gently – he knew that _something_ must be wrong with one of Greg's legs; he did, after all, use a cane – the bartender tugged his former-patron's jeans over his hips, off of his thighs, and past his knees. He tossed the pants to the other side of the room before pulling down his boxers as well. Doing this revealed both House's infarction scar, and the scar on his side from when he'd been shot. The bartender was taken slightly aback by both of these sights; however, he was too aroused to request an explanation; especially before he was finished with what he intended to do. All he said to Greg was, "Move up," which he did, before straddling the older man's hips and beginning to lower himself onto his cock, still slick with saliva and pre-cum. He would have liked to have had some real lube, but this would have to do – technically, it was enough, and he wasn't in a particularly significant amount of pain as he slowly guided Greg into him.

House sat up as far as he could on his elbows, and watched with fascination as the bartender straddled and guided him inside his anal cavity. The sensation was completely unlike any he'd ever experienced before; it was nearly like having sex with a woman, but it was fundamentally different – for one thing, his partner had a throbbing erection. For another, it was tighter; less slimy. He wasn't entirely certain, at this point, as to which gender he would end up preferring intercourse with, now that he'd tried them both; however, he would have plenty of time to think about that later. For the moment, he simply concentrated on what he was feeling as the bartender began to move rhythmically up and down his shaft. After a minute or two, he even began to thrust himself; moving his hips up to meet the bartender's ass as he aided House in moving in and out of him.

After a number of minutes, House decided that he wanted to know what it felt like to have someone else's dick in his hands. So, he slowed his thrusting, reached out with his right hand, and grasped the bartender's cock. At first, he just held it; felt the bartender's heat against his palm, and ran his thumb over the curves along the head and the underside of the shaft. The bartender, who had already been moaning and breathing heavily, let out a strangled breath as he felt Greg's fingers run over him. After a few moments, House synchronised the rhythm of his thrusts with the rhythm of his hand, and quickly but methodically pumped the younger man's cock.

It was less than ten minutes before the rubbing of Greg's dick against his prostate, coupled with the feeling of Greg's large, warm hand rubbing up and down the shaft of his cock were simply too much for him to bear, and the bartender couldn't help but let out a groan as he shot a load onto Greg's hand and stomach. He clenched himself around the older man's cock as he came, and this appeared to seal the deal for House; with a loud moan, he allowed himself to let go into the younger man, come shooting up into the bartender, and spilling back down around his own cock before leaking out and coating his upper thighs with his own ejaculate.

The two held their positions for a few moments; panting and reflecting on the quality of the sex they'd just had. Eventually, after a few more shared kisses, House pulled out of the bartender, and slid into position on his bed; crawling clumsily under the sheets and pulling his comforter up over him. After flicking off the bedside lamp that had been turned on through their escapade, the bartender followed suit; joining House, who was already half-asleep, in the bed.

As he settled down beside him, the bartender asked Greg, "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

All he heard from House as he turned over to face the wall was a muffled, "It was great. Now go sleep on the couch; I want you out by nine tomorrow morning."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** I wasn't planning to continue this story; initially, I intended for it to be a one-shot. But, evidently, a couple of people liked reading it as much as I liked writing it. I wasn't expecting that. In light of this new development, here's a second chapter! It's much shorter than I would have liked it to be; however, I have exams this week – not much time to write fiction, but I'm still very interested in knowing whether people like where I'm going with this or not. Reviews would be much appreciated.

O O O

"Hey. Hey, wake up!" House rapped the floor in front of the sofa loudly with the handle of his cane. He was nearly shouting. "It's nine-thirty; you have negative twenty-nine minutes to get off my couch and out the door."

The half-naked twenty-three-year-old rolled over; nearly falling off the sofa as he propped himself up on his elbows. "What? _What_ time is it?" He squinted; light was seeping in from between the blinds covering the windows, and it was searing his eyes. He shielded his face with his hand, and looked up at the man who had woken him. Greg. The guy from the bar. He smiled as the memories of the previous night flooded back into his mind. "Hey. You look better." He was commenting, of course, on House's sobriety – the night before, the doctor had been plastered out of his mind.

House, still holding the end of his cane in his hand, nudged the bartender with the handle. "Time for you to leave. _Get up._" He turned around, got his cane back into position, and limped toward the kitchen. He started to load up his backpack, which was sitting on the kitchen table. "I need you out of here. I'm late for work; I'm going to be looking at swollen penises all day if I'm not there in ten minutes."

The bartender sat up on the couch, and stretched his arms. He was clad only in boxer shorts; the rest of his clothes were still lying on House's bedroom floor, where he'd tossed them the night before. His eyes having adjusted to the light, he looked over at House and smiled. "You don't really seem to me as though you're the type to be opposed to looking at swollen dicks, doctor." He stood up, cracking his knuckles as he surveyed the room around him. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as I find my pants..." He turned and looked around. "...Where are they, again...?"

House paused, looked up from zipping his iPod and PSP into the main compartment of his bag, and gave the bartender a look. "Erect penises swollen with blood and penises swollen with pus and genital warts are two completely different things." He looked back down and continued what he was doing. "Your pants are right where you tossed them last night before you shoved me up your butt." When the bartender gave him a questioning look, he added with a jerk of his head, "Down the hall and to your left." The bartender nodded, recognition flashing in his eyes. As House watched the young man scuttle off down the hall, he found himself wishing he could recall the details of the previous night. All he really remembered was getting drunk at the bar, coming home, having sex, and waking up with a headache. _How_ the bartender had talked him into it was beyond him; all he knew was that he'd done it, and that he didn't regret it. Aside from the fact that he'd floated through the experience in a river of whiskey and pills, it had been just as satisfying as any one-night-stand he'd ever had; he was curious as to how, precisely, it had all played out.

Down the hall and to his left, the bartender went around the room collecting and tugging on his clothes as he found them. His jeans and socks were bunched up against the wall; his shirt in a wrinkled bundle beside the bed. As he was buttoning it up, he scanned the room with his eyes out of habit. The bed was un-made, and as he looked it over, he eyed a stain on the left side of it, toward the end. He smirked. For someone who had 'never had sex with a man in his life', Greg had been pretty good.

He was about to leave, but as his eyes took one last look around, he noticed an orange prescription bottle resting on the dresser. Greg had been popping whatever it was full of like candy all night long. Curious, he lifted up and inspected the bottle. _Vicodin_. The bartender raised his eyebrows as a smile crept onto his face. Either the older man had one hell of a pain problem, or he was an addict. The frequency with which he'd been taking the pills lead the bartender to believe the latter; his cane and the giant scars on his body, however, pushed him more toward the former. He wondered if Greg would satisfy his curiosity if asked. He also wondered if he might be willing to share.

In the meantime, House was getting impatient. The bartender was taking far too long to gather his clothes, and he really needed him out of there. He wasn't crazy about the idea of leaving the young man alone in his apartment; ever since he'd had his stereo stolen, he'd been a bit more cautious about leaving his door open to strangers. By this time, he had his coat and scarf on, and his backpack was slung over his shoulder. After standing in the doorway for a minute or two looking annoyed, he decided to go back to the bedroom and see what was taking so long.

When he entered, he came upon the bartender handling one of his pill bottles. Immediately, he snatched the medication out of the man's hand. "What are you doing?"

The bartender ignored the question; instead responding with one of his own. "You take Vicodin?"

"Yes, _I_ take Vicodin. Not you. Especially not _my_ Vicodin. Now stop trying to infiltrate my stash, and leave already. It's a Wednesday morning; don't you have somewhere you need to _be_?" House stepped to the side, and made an exaggerated gentlemanly motion; as though he was ushering the bartender out the door.

The bartender took House's cue, and stepped out into the hallway. Had he not known that House was hung-over (and probably not very happy to begin with; otherwise, he likely wouldn't have drank himself stupid the night before), he may have been mildly hurt by how abrupt the older man was being with him. It had been bad enough when Greg had sent him out to the couch after sex; now, the bartender felt, he was being downright mean. It wasn't that he expected affection, or even friendliness – he wasn't that naïve – he just wanted some civility. He was understandably disappointed by the fact that he wasn't getting much in the way of it. Nonetheless, he walked backward down the corridor, talking to House while they made their way back to the living room. "Don't get your panties in a twist; I wasn't going to take any." The two exited the hall. The bartender stopped and stood beside House. "But, I _was_ going to ask if you'd be interested in... sharing, maybe?" He smiled, and looked up at the older man; his expression half-hopeful, and half-deviant.

House laughed sarcastically, and continued to walk toward the apartment door. His back to the bartender, he said, "Something tells me I need them more than you do." He took the young man's coat and scarf off of the hook by the door, and tossed them at him as he picked his bike helmet up from off the floor and tucked it under his arm. "Now get out."

As the bartender pulled his coat on, he looked somewhat dejected. Of all the men he'd ever slept with, Greg seemed to be the most belligerent of them. Most of his flings wouldn't think twice about handing him a few pills or a syringe as a token of thanks for a fun night, but this guy would barely even acknowledge him. The bartender wondered if he was always like this. Part of him admired Greg's wit – he really was clever – but he also hated being treated like dirt. In the end, he settled for rationalising that, perhaps, the older man was just having a bad week. If he hooked up with him again sometime, he reasoned, perhaps he wouldn't be quite so much of an ass. So, instead of arguing, the bartender responded simply with, "Alright."

The two walked out the front doors together in silence, but as they were about to part, the bartender took a gentle hold of House's arm. He looked him in the eye, and smiled. "By the way, I'm Trevor."

House nodded, jerked his arm out of Trevor's grasp, and continued on toward his bike. "Neat," he said – just loudly enough so that he could be heard – as he swung his leg over the seat and revved the motor. By the time he'd begun to drive off in the direction of the hospital, Trevor was well on his way in the opposite direction; off toward the tavern to pick up his car.

O O O

His department still void of new cases, House drifted through another day of clinic duty; seeing patients, getting annoyed, popping some Vicodin, and starting the cycle over again. He joined Wilson in the cafeteria for lunch, but didn't say anything to his friend about his Tuesday evening adventure. He was tempted to, if only for the sake of the look that he knew would appear on Wilson's face if he did, but ultimately decided against it. He'd been so drunk, there wasn't much about the night before that he could remember with satisfying enough accuracy to make him eager to share. He could always shock Wilson next time. If there was a next time.

House wasn't entirely certain as to whether the idea of 'next time' appealed to him. Come morning, the bartender – Trevor, was it? – hadn't done much else besides irritate him. Then again, most people irritated him, and this person just so happened to be good for something – and, as he'd said, he came free of charge.

After Wilson left the table, House put his feet up on the chair opposite his own. He pulled his PSP out of his pocket, and turned it on. Seeing as how he frequented the bar in which Trevor worked, it wasn't as though he could avoid him forever. He was at least going to see him again; if it wasn't going to cost him anything, why not let the bartender serve him more than just a few drinks? For a bit of morning-after annoyance, it was worth it. Wasn't it?

As he mashed the buttons on the PSP, House couldn't help but wonder why he was thinking about this as much as he was. He'd scarcely ever given this much thought to a one-nighter in his life; especially not a particularly annoying one. The thought crossed his mind that it might be because this particular one-nighter had happened to be a guy. That would definitely make sense – hell, he'd thought a lot about the first girl he'd slept with, too. But he'd been a high-school senior back then, and even he liked to think that he'd grown up in the thirty or so years since that time, if only a little bit.

It wasn't that he was worried about anything; he certainly knew that sleeping with another man didn't make him gay, no matter how much he'd enjoyed it. He didn't really even _like_ the kid all that much; between his having left late, and his having asked House to share his Vicodin – and whatever other dumb things he'd said and done the night before that House couldn't remember – it really didn't seem as though there had been much _to _like. Granted, he had given him a ride home. House had to give him that. But how much of that act was pure-hearted kindness, and how much of it was part of a ploy to get into House's pants... well, he wasn't sure. His perception of human nature lead him to lean toward the latter.

Maybe, he thought, he'd go back to the bar in a couple of days and see if the bartender was interested in coming home with him again. For House, this whole 'having gay sex' thing was pretty weird – and House loved weird. He decided he wanted to experience it sober. With a half-smile on his face, he switched off his PSP and got up to return to the clinic. He had a feeling that the bartender wouldn't turn him down.


End file.
